


Regarding Humility

by folkful



Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fantastic Racism, Humiliation, M/M, Mild Blood, Nipple Play, Object Penetration, Power Imbalance, Punching, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, ambarys doesn't know when to stop, brief fight, but i dunno how to fix it either so yolo, how tf do i tag 'joar tells ambarys what he did to revyn just to fuck with him', i low-key hate this, like super mild, like that i guess, my bastard hands strike again, no beta we die like men, ropes, toward malthyr specifically, yeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28336932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkful/pseuds/folkful
Summary: When a rare opportunity presents itself, the Dragonborn takes it upon himself to teach Ambarys Rendar a lesson in respect.
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ambarys Rendar, Malthyr Elenil/Ambarys Rendar (implied)
Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057886
Comments: 27
Kudos: 20





	Regarding Humility

**Author's Note:**

> As always, tags exist for a reason. If any of it is triggering or uncomfortable, skip this story. And if I missed any important tags, tell me so I can add them.
> 
> I was gonna wait to write Joar with Ambarys, but it was summoned in comments by DirtyScrolls, so here I am.
> 
> I wrote most of this on Christmas Eve because I had nothing else to do. Hope y'all had nice holidays! I didn't lol  
> Was I sober when I wrote this? Absolutely not. Should I have been? For sure. I blame my dad for continuously handing me drinks, and myself for piss poor self control. Regardless, the grammar in this might suck fat nuts, sorry if that's the case. Second language + alcohol. I've checked it over and fixed what I could find.
> 
> I'm nowhere near satisfied with this, but I don't know what specifically is busting my balls about it so I said fuck it and am hitting post regardless. Not like anyone is gonna be on here rn, people are busy having lives or whatever

When he'd previously thought of humbling Ambarys Rendar (and he had thought of it, often), Joar had figured he would need something elaborate. But as it were, the opportunity to do so came unexpectedly.

It had been set in motion one late evening, during one of his rare visits to the Cornerclub. He'd been begrudgingly served, and then settled at an empty table, silently listening in on the gossip from the Gray Quarter, ignoring Rendar glaring daggers at him from behind the bar. The elf had not a polite bone in his body, at least nothing reserved for Nords like him. And Joar stood out from the small group of patrons and slum-dwellers, and his reputation as Dragonborn and Stormcloak alike preceded him.

It was there, among the Dark Elves' casual chatter and the dry scent of pipe-smoke, that Joar overheard a discussion between Rendar and his assistant, Malthyr Elenil. The latter would be heading for Kynesgrove to meet with a supplier, leaving Rendar on his own for at least one day and one night.

He was leaving tomorrow evening.

Joar had made the decision, then, that he would use this to his advantage.

He'd never been under any impression that, even together, the two elves would be able to take him down. But, loathe as he was to admit it, they were sharp, and Joar was in new territory. He did not fully trust his ability to keep the both of them subdued, and so he'd settled on viewing them as a target for a later time. He could hardly believe this lucky discovery to be coincidence. Perhaps, someone with more power than he approved of his path. Aedra, Daedra, something else entirely. It was a bolstering thought, if only for the brief moment it stayed, and he downed his drink in a silent, one-man toast.

The next night, he watched Elenil disappear behind the closing gate, fingers tapping a quiet monotone rhythm against his legs. He sat outside the doors to Candlehearth Hall, a bottle of mead in his hand, wind toying with his black hair.

He felt ready. More than ready. Rendar was nothing but trouble, spiteful and brash, unappreciative of the Nords who had given him the opportunity to stay in Windhelm. It went further than simply being unappreciative, really. Ambarys Rendar was openly hostile, looking for arguments where there were none. Wanting conflict.

Well, if he so wanted it, Joar would give it to him.

He'd strapped a bag to his belt before heading out, packed a small assortment of items that might come in handy. He expected Rendar to put up more of a challenge than Sadri. He knew Rendar to have fought fellow Stormcloaks, constantly arguing with Rolff Stone-Fist, spending nights in jail more than once. Sadri was a smooth-talker on the job, but when cornered, he acted like prey, caught in Joar's simple traps.

He'd visited the pawn shop once since taking Revyn Sadri for the second time, noting the way he became increasingly skittish for every move Joar made, and how he hadn't been able to properly cover the dark red mark on his neck, though clearly trying. He had to admit, the rush of power tasted sweet, and now, he found himself wondering if the effect would be the same on Ambarys Rendar. He doubted it.

Joar had picked something up from Nurelion earlier that day, when the market was at its most crowded. Something to make it easier on himself, mostly, because as much as he enjoyed a fight, he was looking for more. It was a potion, a rare purchase for him. He did not know how it worked, but he'd recently been on the wrong end of one, and it would crush any chance Rendar had at gaining the upper hand. Being addled by it had felt like wading through syrup, any attempt at movement painfully slow and heavy. Once the effect faded, though, his retribution had been swift.

He applied the poison to a steel knife on his way to the Gray Quarter, in one of the many silent alleyways cutting through the streets of the city.

There were still a few scattered patrons in the Cornerclub, and Joar sat down at a corner table, waiting. It was easier than usual to ignore Rendar's glares and unfriendly demeanor, knowing he would soon get to teach him an overdue lesson in showing respect to his betters. 

When he noticed the elf start clearing the bar, most of the guests had already left. When Rendar brashly told the few lingering drunks that he was closing up the Cornerclub for the night, Joar did not budge. And when Rendar barked a warning at him to "get out", he only smiled.

The barkeep rolled his eyes, clearly used to troublesome patrons, and made his way across the room. He grabbed a fistful of Joar's shirt, patience worn thin.

"I'm not going to do this tonight,  _ s'wit. _ " He pulled, trying to get the Nord out of his chair. "Leave."

Joar stood, raising his hands to his chest mockingly, not responding. He walked toward the door.

Instead of opening it, he locked it from the inside.

Joar spun on his heel, drawing his poisoned dagger. Rendar took a few steps back, picking up a knife from the countertop of the bar. He looked as though he was going to say something, but Joar was uninterested in anything he had to say. He moved forward, using the momentum to ram his fist into Rendar's gut, making him double over, breath knocked from his lungs. He grunted as Joar's blade sliced through his thin shirt and into the skin of his shoulder-blade, staggering slightly. When he turned, his own knife still in his hand, Joar could already see his movements were delayed. Quickly, he threw his weapon aside, instead using his brute strength and body-weight to wrestle Rendar to the floor, straddling his stomach, wrenching the elf's knife out of his grip and placing it against his throat. Rendar was grappling for his hands, trying to push at him, but feeling the cold iron edge against his skin made him settle down. His eyes were wild with anger and confusion. He was swearing under his breath, but did not yell for guards, or help. They both knew who a Stormcloak would favor.

With his free hand, Joar found the sturdy lengths of rope in his bag. He removed the knife from Rendar's neck. But still wanting him as subdued as possible, Joar reared back, landing a sharp punch to his temple, knuckles impacting hard and leaving bright marks. Rendar's head snapped back, and Joar knew from experience the effect of the slowing potion would disorient him more than enough. He lifted the barkeep's hands above his head, winding the rope around his wrists a few times before tying them, using a knot he'd learned from a fellow soldier. Then, he got up, moving back and grabbing both of Rendar's ankles. The elf tried to dislodge them, weakly kicking out, never quite landing any effective blows. 

Soon, Joar had his ankles tied down, deciding to move on quickly before the potion's effect dwindled. He gathered the struggling elf into his arms, carrying him up the first flight of stairs like a bride, albeit a heavy, bruised, and unwilling one. After moving a table out of the way, he propped Rendar up against the wall, tying the ropes about his wrists around one of the sparse planks separating the room from the stairs leading further up. That way, Rendar could not get away once the slowness wore off, which it would, very soon. He wanted to wait until it had.

He left the barkeep to himself for a moment, going downstairs again to pick up both his own and Rendar's blades, and briefly searching the room. On his way back up, he could hear the elf struggle with his bonds, the wood that trapped him creaking under the strain. But it was sturdy enough to hold him, Joar was sure of it.

"Quiet down," he said in spite of this, "unless you'd like me to poison you again."

Rendar markedly would not like that, but as the Nord moved up the stairs to his and Elenil's joined sleeping quarters, he heard renewed, invigorated struggle. He searched this room, too, finding very little of interest aside from a broken pickaxe and a bow on a table in the corner. Ignoring the bow, he carefully dislodged the pick from its handle, leaving the metal on the table and keeping the short wooden pole. There was something he would like to try with it.

He came back to the second floor, seeing Rendar still trying to break loose, movements back to sharp and strong. It had been long enough, now.

Joar placed the knives and the wooden handle on the table after clearing it, as well as the same vial of oil he'd used on Revyn Sadri last time. He took off his fur coat, going to leave it on a shelf, but stopping at the sight of a set of armor, familiar silver and red. Was one of them a former Legionnaire? Was it simply a way to quietly show support (though Rendar had never cared for being quiet), or something left behind from some friend? Whatever the case, it made him all the more determined. The Dark Elves usually claimed the civil war was not their business. But now, it was clearer than ever that that was, in many cases, a lie. Once he was finished, he would take this with him, throw it from the Windhelm bridge. It had no place in Ulfric Stormcloak's city.

Stepping back in front of the elf, Joar pulled his shirt off over his head, and freed his straining cock from his garments. Ambarys Rendar scowled.

"If you come anywhere near me with that, I'll bite it off."

"Oh no, that sniping mouth of yours is safe, for tonight. I would never trust you not to bite, at least not without incentive." Joar delivered a loose slap to the side of Rendar's face, not intended to hurt as much as it was to humiliate. "Sadri was much sweeter. Tried so hard to please, if only so I wouldn't hurt him. Of course, I would have taken what I wanted regardless."

"What?" Rendar's crimson eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"

"Nothing he enjoyed, I assure you."

The barkeep's struggles were ignited again, this time not as much an attempt to break free as it was an attempt to get close enough to Joar to hurt him. Protective of his own kind, most likely. He waited for it to die down, and once it did, Rendar fixed him with an expression of rage.

"You were the one to rob his store."

"Oh, we robbed more than his store, gray-skin." Joar wanted to push further, harder. "I fucked him while my friend held him down. And then I came there alone, the next week." He crouched just out of reach of the barkeep. "He's pretty when he cries."

Rendar was cursing at him in Dunmeris, but clearly getting tired, barely moving. Doing this just after the elf was finished working had been a good idea, apparently. Joar reached a hand out, petting his head in a way easily taken as condescending. It was. Then, he moved in closer, untying Rendar's belt and unlacing his trousers, despite the way he was trying to twist out of his grip. Realising he'd worked himself into a corner by tying him before he'd stripped him, he reached for the elf's knife. The tunic was easy to cut away, and Rendar at least knew not to move about with a blade so close to his skin. His bare torso and stomach were lean, with more muscle than Joar had expected. Still, it was not a warrior's body, but a worker's. The trousers sat tighter on the body, and once in his building enthusiasm, he sliced too harshly, leaving a little cut on the elf's gray thigh. Rendar gasped, surprised and in pain, but kept still so it would not happen again.

Once he was stripped, he seemed to realise that predicament, drawing his knees up in an attempt to shield himself that really just served Joar a pretty view of his body.

Finished with the games, he gestured at the vial on the table.

"Ask me to use the oil." He tugged at Rendar's gray hair, taking down his ponytail. "Or I won't use it at all."

"Fuck off."

"I'll be nice to you," Joar got closer to the barkeep's sharp ear, "and allow you another chance."

He wound his fingers up in the sweaty tresses, pulling hard. It was a strange thing, the way the elf's hair was almost the same colour as his skin.

"I'd advise you not to try and call the bluff, gray-skin. I do  _ not _ make empty threats."

Rendar winced, but otherwise stayed stoic.

"Use the oil," he muttered.

"I'll need a bit more than that, sweetheart."

"I - please." His voice was monotonous, almost sounding as though he was forcing himself to sound bored, but his face was turning red. "Please, use the oil."

He still did not mean the words, but it was only the humiliation Joar aimed for, and he had gotten it. That beautiful shade of red under the gray skin. It made them look less odd, less alien. Something not ruined by Azura's curse. 

Joar coated the fingers on his right hand in oil, then leaned in, pressing a kiss to the side of Rendar's neck, nibbling slightly, but not biting down hard. He lifted the barkeep's thighs with his dry hand, pushing his legs out of the way. Rendar had set his face, mouth a hard line, looking at something behind Joar. The Nord's pointer finger circled the rim of his asshole, then pushed in in one long motion. Rendar gave a quiet grunt, but nothing more, discomfort and humiliation rather than pain. Perhaps he was used to it. Perhaps it was like people said, and he and Malthyr Elenil were up to interesting things in their free-time. The fact there was only one bed upstairs did not pass him by unnoticed. Maybe one day, he would get the both of them at once. 

It was an alluring mental image, and he was losing patience.

His second finger slid in faster, inciting no sound from Rendar, not even when he began scissoring them, spreading his hole open. Definitely used to it, then, at least more than Sadri was. He was increasingly certain he'd been the first man to take the merchant's ass. The idea that Sadri's first time taking cock was that, bent over his own counter, held down, crying, was deeply arousing to him.

The third finger was harsher in its journey, and the elf breathed deeply, but stayed silent. It was a little disappointing, frankly.

So he curled his fingers, searching for his sweet spot. When he brushed against it with his fingertips, Rendar tensed.

"Don't."

The next touch was still gentle, but the pressure harder, and the elf jolted, eyes widening when Joar did not let up, continuing his exploration as he pleased. Tapping, rubbing, stroking.

"Don't, I said!"

There was fury there, but there was something else accompanying it. Joar wanted to coax it out, let Rendar's body betray him entirely. Freeing his other hand, he continued the onslaught inside of his hole, while his other hand began toying with the elf's cock.

The barkeep thrashed, then, trying to get the Nord off him, but having no use of his arms. Joar's hand did leave his prick briefly, but it drew upwards, catching hold of a nipple stiffened from cold. He pinched down, hard, using his nails. It was not to stimulate, but to punish, to tell him to stay still. Rendar did so after a moment, mouth open in a silent sound of agony. Only then did Joar let go, returning to stroke and massage lower. 

Strangely, amazingly, Rendar's cock stirred.

Joar had absolutely no interest in the elf's pleasure, in anyone's pleasure outside his own, but he'd come here to make him humble, to shame him. Out of everyone in the Gray Quarter, Rendar was the most insolent, the most in need to be put in his place. He was practically begging for it.

When his hand stilled, the elf was nearly fully hard. He may have continued, but his arousal was beginning to pain him, so he withdrew his fingers. The noise they made as they exited was obscene, and it sent a jolt to his cock. Rendar's eyes were on him, intense, searing with the violence he was unable to enact. It was gorgeous. Joar found himself meeting the gaze, eyes full of hunger. Ravenous. The hand guiding him toward Rendar's warm flesh was shaky, his breathing heavy with lust. 

His cockhead nudged at the edge of the hole, and Rendar closed his eyes for a moment, shuddering, not hiding his revulsion. Joar began to push inside, still looking at the bartender's face, since he could not see further down, view obscured. The elf's eyes were still screwed shut, likely trying to block out what was happening. Joar did not want to give him that chance. He leaned in close, capturing him in a rough kiss, nipping at his lips, trying to gain entrance past his clenched teeth. Rendar was stunned for a moment, and then pain shot through Joar's lower lip. The elf had bit him.

He tasted his own blood, and it only served to make him dizzy, thrusting harder, pale eyes alight, almost manic. His lip burned sharply, and it wasn't quite enjoyable, but it was one sensation in a sea of sensation, and it made everything that much more powerful. 

He could not let the defiance slide, though.

One side of Rendar's face was marked by Joar's knuckles already. So he struck the other side, trying to hit the same place, wanting symmetry. The elf cried out, and tightened around Joar's cock. The Nord's pace was almost mad now, chasing only his own release. He'd had some vague plan to continue touching Rendar, to force him to spill, but it had all but been thrown out the window once he'd entered him.

Not quite satisfied with only the strike to the elf's face, he leaned forward again, but lower this time. He caught a nipple in his mouth, the same one he'd pinched, rolling the dark bud between his teeth. He found he enjoyed it, and the strangled little sound Rendar failed to contain. He bit down harder, settling in a rhythm going between little nibbles and sharply grinding his teeth together. 

By now, it seemed the elf's hole was getting sensitive too, without any real stimulation beside the pain, and he was squirming again. Every now and then, he hissed when he tried to pull away, resulting in a hard yank on his chest.

When he came, Joar's teeth dug in hard, leaving the skin red, bearing grooves from the bites. It had been quick, and intense in a way that left him drained. But he had more to do. More to try. He withdrew slowly, wincing slightly at the sensitivity, the sharpness of Rendar's rim against his head.

Standing up, he retrieved the handle of the pickaxe. The elf stared at him, trying to figure out his next actions. Joar chuckled.

"I thought you would have realised what I'm here to do, now that I've stuck my cock in you. This will hurt worse, believe me."

Maybe for the first time yet, Rendar was unable to hide the fear in his eyes. Joar felt as though he fed on the little slip-ups, what he knew was trying to break through the wall of anger. Was this how it felt to be a vampire?

He slicked one of the smooth ends of the pole. It was thicker than his prick, thicker by far, so it would need the extra lubricant. 

"You need to learn," he commanded, "to control your temper. And if no one else will teach you, the lot falls on me."

As he sat back in front of Rendar, he could see the elf was breathing heavy, trying to turn away from him. Joar moved his legs to the side, prodding in between his cleft with a dry finger. He was still slightly loosened from Joar's cock, enough, he decided, and so he spread him with one hand, the other pushing the oiled handle up against his entrance. As he began pressing it inside, in small, short jabs, Rendar tried to push himself backwards and away from the object, back arching and tensing involuntarily, visibly straining with the effort to not cry out. A low groan came bubbling out of his throat, eyes unfocused. The handle met increasing resistance, but Joar pushed past it, unrelenting, wanting this humbling to be effective. Rendar was gasping now, pushing himself so hard against the wall that his legs trembled with the effort. Joar kept silent, wanting no distraction. The barkeep was no longer making snide comments, or glaring at him, only staring up at the ceiling, eyes glazed with tears that didn't fall. The Nord began moving the handle out, slowly, then back in, repeating the motion. 

It was getting harder for Rendar to contain his noises, it seemed, one long, pained groan the only thing he allowed himself, but cutting off little whines and whimpers along the way. 

The depth of the handle, and its sheer girth, must be torture on the elf's insides. But though his eyes were damp, the tears stayed there, and he made only low, animalistic sounds. Joar had expected him to be stronger than Sadri, and if he were to be honest, he was impressed. Part of him, the dark part that wanted to hurt and then keep hurting, wished to find Rendar's limit, to find what would make him fall apart like the merchant had.

Some other time.

He was sated from coming, and tired, and the barkeep had all but gone limp, giving in and letting himself whine quietly. Joar twisted the handle slightly, and finished with a few deep, punishing thrusts that had Rendar nearly arc off the floor again. Then, he began pulling the thing out, slower than what was necessary, listening to the elf's breathing. When the rounded end slid out, Rendar closed his eyes, sighing.

Joar stood, using the thin towel that had been in Rendar's belt to clean the pole. There were a few little streaks of red mixed in with the oil and seed, but he was certain nothing had torn badly. The elf would be fine with no healing. 

"I'll kill you someday." Rendar looked grave, meeting Joar's gaze without hesitation. The Nord finished wiping down the pickaxe's handle, and then sat down opposite him.

"You could try. Do you know what would happen, then?" He remained silent for a moment. "Because I do. You'll fail, but you'll have attempted murder on a Nord, and a Thane, at that. They'll want to execute you. I'll make sure that does not happen. And while you're rotting in the Windhelm Dungeons, know I will do whatever I want with your sweet Malthyr, and there will be no one there to stop me. Tell me, would you rather I tell you the stories then, when I inevitably come to pay you a visit? Or would you rather have to think them up yourself, suffocated in uncertainty?"

Rendar had averted his eyes, instead looking at the wall as though he wanted to burn a hole through it.

"Look at me."

He did, giving Joar that same fire.

"Listen, and listen good, gray-skin. I am not afraid of you, or of anyone in this damn slum. None of you can hurt me. I've slain dragons. Do you think, possible ex-Imperial or no, that I can be intimidated by some mouthy barkeep with a rusty knife?"

Rendar did not respond, only sagged slightly in the ropes, seeming distant and present all at once. Joar cut the bonds around his hands, but left the ankles bound, leaving the barkeep's old knife on the table near him. He could handle that by himself.

He gathered the Imperial armor, intending to destroy it before returning home. Then, he put on his coat, descended down the stairs, and left the Cornerclub and its owner on their own.


End file.
